


believe it

by zukofenty



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Publicist!Katara, R&B Singer!Zuko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zukofenty/pseuds/zukofenty
Summary: The one where Katara’s a freshly graduated publicist with a (tiny) crush on the music industry’s latest obsession.“I told you to not fall in love with a singer! You always get a song written about your pussy after the breakup.”
Relationships: Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 161





	believe it

**Author's Note:**

> hi just wanted to say i love u! sending u all socially distant kisses <3

"Please _give it back_ , I promise I’ll behave!” 

“I already said _no_.” Katara’s grip on her phone is impossibly tight. She knew she should’ve been more suspicious the moment a pouting Zuko came and asked “you got games on your phone?” 

“I smoked a blunt by myself for the first time and blocked my grandma on Facebook because three Christmas dinners ago she gave Sokka the last sea prune while I was changing my pad. Don’t overestimate our friendship’s worth.” 

Zuko scoffs. Their arms come out to stabilize themselves as the tour bus likely rolled over another possum. It was second nature at this point, as the four weeks of Zuko’s first tour came to a close. “You were hired to be my personal hype man! Or, hype woman in this case! This does not feel very hype-like. Also, why the fuck do you have me saved as ‘COLONIZER’ in your phone?” 

“I was originally hired to manage a few hashtags. Stop trying to change my LinkedIn job status to _Thee Zuko’s one and only hype woman_.” 

He blew a raspberry her way. “You’re no fun.” Katara tried to stifle a giggle at his petulance. She couldn’t believe this was Zuko, the R&B soloist with a honey-like voice responsible for addicting multi platinum singles. Different from the Zuko she knew, a clumsy 20 something who still couldn’t make rice correctly. “Besides, it’s the only way I can make sure you stay my hype woman forever.”

“Forever? Stop kissing your own asshole.” Katara whispers. Zuko slips his fingers between hers, holding her hand gently. As gently as his calloused hands were capable of.

“That’s not a saying. And, don’t be dramatic, forever’s a long time. Maybe for the next 25 years.” Even cramped on Katara’s bunk in the tour bus, limbs stacked clumsily on top of each other, Zuko still felt he could take on the whole world with her by his side. 

// 

“Fuck!” Katara threw her phone against the wall. She needed to feel _something_ again after numbly applying to job after job, and in turn, rejection after rejection. Another goddamn rejection. “I knew my morals getting in the way of my OnlyFans account was a mistake,” she muttered to herself, head buried in her hands. She was feeling especially dejected today, with graduation looming. Or maybe it was because her lunch consisted of her forcing expired Cheez Its down her throat in her attempt to budget. Who knows. 

In a few months, she’d like to think she would be graduating a la Rihanna. Not Met Gala fabulous Rihanna, more like Rihanna on January 1st trying to fend off angry people asking where the album was. Except instead of an album, her angry fans (Hakoda and Sokka) were more inclined to angrily inquire why she was turning down a chance to go to med school. Katara was trying to wrack her brain for a feasible explanation, complete with elaborate graphs with costs versus loan payments and it made sense. It made sense to defer and wait a year before reapplying to schools after gaining some more work experience and to take a _break_ after a grueling four years of undergrad. 

Deep down, Katara knew damn well that there was an overwhelming reason as to why she felt so _stagnant_ . Katara never was the girl that remained _stagnant_ . She was a mover and a shaker, a balls to the knees type of go getter. She was graduating college a few semesters early with a goddamn _pre-med degree_ , a time-intensive and difficult degree, always two steps ahead of the game. She was meant to be out in the world changing it for the better, changing it for girls who looked like her. Girls the world never a second look at it. That’s why she was going into medicine, to shake shit up and fight for the people the world turned their back on. 

But, at the end of the day, she was scared. 

Scared of feeling even smaller than she already was. Because she was the cream of the crop at her high school, she managed to land herself a spot at Ba Sing Se University—the top school in the nation. Her classmates had remembered her as being too intense for their comfort, despite her meaning well. Many still shudder recalling the time their AP Biology teacher, Mr. Konietzko, scheduled a final the same day as prom. Lovingly dubbed “ _Project: Eat a Dick,_ ” Katara managed to collect an unsettling amount of clandestine photographic evidence of Mr. Konietzko bringing his mistress, the school’s soccer coach, into class every day. Their teacher swore him nuzzling Debbie’s breasts behind the classroom dumpsters was _purely_ for educational purposes. 

“‘Colleagues’? What a load of cheese shit!” Katara screamed as she furiously typed her “Project: Eat a Dick Missive.” She gathered Change.org signatures, and even had the nerve to include color coded graphs displaying student dissatisfaction in comparison to his teaching. Needless to say, she secured her classmates a stress free prom (and herself a trip to the school psychologist). 

They still were wholly impressed, and not surprised at all when it was announced Katara was heading her way to the university. Not one person from their high school had gotten accepted. Especially not with a scholarship to sweeten the deal. She thought, all the years of all nighters, missing breakfast to study, and intentionally being antisocial was going to pay off. When she could’ve been practicing her eyeliner’s sharpness to impress the pretty girls in school because they were nice and always shared lip glosses and she wanted to _live that lifestyle_ , she needed to focus. 

That’s what she was good at. Focusing on her goals, never wavering from her values. 

“I am a _pusher_!” She tried reasoning with her academic counselor, who was basically on her knees pleading with the young girl to lessen her class load. 

The older woman sighed, scratching at a scab on her elbow in frustration. Fuck Ezcema. “I see how much of a ‘pusher’ you are, and I’m sure you didn’t mean in the drug sense. Stop quoting _Mean Girls_ , Katara. 2012 Facebook memes aren't a good look on you.” She rubbed at the creases in her forehead, trying to lessen the strain of the oncoming headache. God, was this bitch stubborn. “You aren’t living in a movie, ok? This is some real world shit out here. You’re going to kill yourself at the rate you’re going.” Hama scrolled through Katara’s list of research and academic achievements, the stunning 4.0 that screamed back _depressed bitch academically achieving to fill a void_. Hama sighed. 

“Why don’t you take a semester off?” She suggests, typing up the recommendation to the sound of Katara’s spluttering. 

Before Katara could complete her patented angry nostril flaring, Hama sighed again. “Look, I know how hard it is to make it at this school. I see how hard you’ve been working to graduate early. You have the time to spare. Just—how about you just take a semester to get some work experience first? You could just wait until the spring to walk the stage, since you’re done with your units now. Take the time off to pad your med school application. Some places care more about things other than just grades.” 

Katara numbly agreed. She couldn’t decide whether it was the consistent two hours of sleep a night she was getting, or the fact she smoked a joint made from an index card stained with her stress tears, but she only agreed and filled out the withdrawal forms right there and then for one reason. She was terrified of the future. She was frustrated at feeling not good enough. No matter how hard she tried, she always felt two steps behind at the goddamn school. 

It was moments like when her classmates laughed at her for not being able to answer a supposedly _simple_ biology question on the first day of class because her teacher in high school was too busy being a whore to explain what cell death was. Or when seemingly every club managed to reject her because her college was just that _prestigious,_ you needed to submit a preliminary resume to get a slim _chance_ of being a member. 

“Even the tap dance club!” Gritting her teeth wasn’t a habit until she came to college. She rarely liked feeling sorry for herself, but she was feeling dizzy from eating only Gummy Bears for dinner and she was going to allow this one moment of gratuitous pity. How was she supposed to compare to the wealthy kids with parents who work at Tesla and could easily score them an internship in the seventh grade? She was pretty sure she was writing _Twilight_ Fanfiction in the seventh grade, not entirely preoccupied with eating Elon Musk’s ass. 

Or it was the time she had a crush on Haru, her O-Chem classmate she gingerly asked to get lunch with (at the dining halls of course, so it would seem like less of a commitment than going to an actual restaurant with edible food). Everything was going well, she was already researching preschools for their hypothetical kids to attend, when she just _had_ to be early to pick him up from his dorm for the frat party he was taking her to. She doesn’t remember much of that night. She vaguely remembered hearing “ _Katara, please let go of my penis, I think you’re about to snap it right in half with your pointy nails_.” It all became a blur after hearing about how he could score some (quote unquote) “light skinned pussy” after planning on ditching Katara at the Gatorade scented fraternity. 

“Something about a man having an opinion just doesn’t sit right with me,” Katara emphasized. “You know what, Haru’s pornstache was his only attractive feature.” She was cozied up in pajamas, makeup scraped off. 

She heard a snort from the bed across the room. “Oh my god. Go back to therapy. Please. How many times have I fucking told you?” Toph angrily questioned. 

Katara groaned. “‘Self care means scented candles and/or watching the TikTok videos with dancing ferrets. It’s _not_ entertaining bare minimum dick.” 

Toph’s cackling made the night seem like nothing more than an unremarkable memory and not a moment of self-esteem annihilation. Even if college was a shitshow for her, at least she had Toph every step of the way. 

//

It should have been a red flag. Even in a Forever 21 suit, Katara felt like the polyester was the most expensive thing in the room. Or rather, the converted basement. Throughout the entire job interview, she sent a quick prayer to Rihanna that her murder at the hands of the geriatric tea maker wasn’t going to be remade into a shitty _Criminal Minds_ episode. Her family better make sure she _at least_ gets _Law and Order: SVU_. 

She could feel the panic perspiration threatening to sweat off her eyebrows. Katara was anticipating legendary producer Uncle Iroh, one of the biggest producers in the entertainment industry. Singers everywhere were biting off each other’s toenails trying to work with the guy. Legend has it he was the one who ghost wrote the national anthem itself (“Rack City” by Tyga). He was _the shit_.

That was before he departed from Fire Nation Records, the largest music label in the world. Katara remembered reading how he left after 30 odd years of being their seasoned hit maker because of something about corrupt management and violent, unethical practices that only hit the news cycles for a few hours before being scrubbed clean from their records. The label was single handedly responsible for nearly every chart topping act, specializing at marketing their artists. They were masterminds behind covering up the inevitable scandals of racist Tweets past and somehow could capitalize on that momentum and turn anyone into the industry’s sweetheart. 

The label even managed to cover up one of the largest controversies in music last year and successfully made the general public forget about their rapper Jet letting elderly women sniff his armpits in his teen years to make ends meet. Come February, and they even secured him a fucking Grammy. 

Katara was face to face with a sweet old man, who was nothing like the rumors of a demanding tyrant of a perfectionist, making it a requirement for singers to run a mile while belting out their songs to build endurance. He’s smiling, a blinding thing that makes Katara want to send one back, too. 

Even when he seemed harmless, Katara was still nervous. 

He’s rubbing at his beard, eyes roaming the slightly wrinkled resume (Katara’s fault for asking Toph to look over the thing and Toph swatting it away). “It’s not an easy feat, doing what you’re doing at a school like Ba Sing Se. Well done!” He exclaims, all big gestures and unbridled pride that makes Katara’s heart ache for her grandmother. 

She smiles the slightest bit. “I know that my resume might show more experience in the medical field, and it’s all research based. But I promise you. I’m a pusher. Not in the drug sense, unless you want me to, of course. More so in the sense of ‘I’ll push and bust my ass to make sure everyone is dying to join Jasmine Dragon Entertainment.’ I know what it’s like to be the underdog, and having to push yourself to the limit to stand out. If you give me this chance, I won’t let you down.” 

She thinks she wins him over when his smile reaches his eyes and he offers her a cup of tea. 

//

Beggars can’t be choosers, especially when you’re graduating into a job market teetering into economic disaster. So she accepted the job offer, even if it meant being horrifically underpaid at Jasmine Dragon Entertainment. Even if it meant working in the basement of a tea shop, and picking up the occasional shift at said tea shop if Toph kept breaking their sink handle every time she takes LSD and hallucinates thinking it will come to life and steal her collection of Megamind figurines (about once a week). 

So Katara comes in, asshole crack of dawn to work, where she’s tasked with being her mentor’s right hand woman. June’s lethally gorgeous, the type of woman that could scare you shitless with a simple eye roll, and have you eating said shit out the palm of her hand. Always polished, makeup applied with a precision that made her appear near poreless, and heels that were pointy and scary and all types of fierce femme fatale and everything in a mentor Katara could possibly want. 

As much as Katara was warming up to Iroh, and found herself hustling under June’s tutelage, she still couldn’t piece the puzzle together. Why someone like June would willingly take a paycut as the head publicist from Fire Nation Records to occasionally having to dodge crumbs from the dilapidated ceiling. (Katara did a thorough stalking of June’s Linkedin, sue her). “Iroh was there for me, when no one else was. The shit they put me through at Fire Nation. Fuck, man. Lost half my mind. You know, coke only feels good when you’re at the lowest point in your life. And when you get cocaine skinny. I do miss that.” June mulls over this, the last rays of sunlight flickering through where they sat near the tea shop’s opened window entrance. “He gave me a second chance, believed I could be someone again. Even if he is a creepy hag.” 

Katara sips absentmindedly at her tea. “You know what, you’re right and you should say it.” June cracks a grin. The girl was a hustler, that’s as much as June gathered in the past few months she’s been her glorified assistant. So headstrong, making up for the lack of technical knowledge with just raw talent and a natural mind for pinpointing the trends. They were a small team trying to help budding singer Zuko find his footing in the industry. An R&B powerhouse with self-produced, self-written tracks. He’s got mystery, honeyed vocal abilities, and is dangerously talented. At least, that’s what their proposed campaign strategy was. 

In all honesty, Katara thought he was a dick. 

One morning, she thought she was alone after being the first one to unlock the shop. She had stayed up the entire night taking supplemental classes June recommended in sharpening her social media analytics knowledge. Even if she hated waking up early, she relished in the moments of calm, and brewed herself a steaming cup of tea. 

She breathed in and out before closing her eyes. The calm before the storm. That was before she nearly dropped her cup in surprise when a voice filters through the silence. 

“Oh Willow and Jaden Smith!” Katara screamed, fear rattling her voice and body. One shaky hand comes to calm against her rapidly beating heart. Her eyes fly open and is flooded with the sight of a silent Zuko sweeping up the floor in his uniform. He has his Airpods in, loudly singing along to Kehlani’s “You Should Be Here.” 

He’s cute, she decides. Katara’s attraction to bare minimum dick aside, she swore Zuko was good looking. Brows furrowed in concentration, with a voice that made Katara understand why Iroh was trying so hard to ensure his career’s success. His broad shoulders and baggy clothes and dangling earring was doing dangerous things to her vagina. 

She stands in front of him, footsteps drowned out by the deafening volume coming from the headphones. “I love that song!” she shouts, jolting him out of his concentrated solo performance. He jumps up, dropping the broom. His mouth is opening and closing like a fish, and eyes are widened beyond belief. Cuter up close. 

Zuko nods, a confused look screwing his handsome features into something so entirely _mean_. “Good for you?” He gives a thumbs up that hurts Katara’s feelings. He throws up his hood, moving clear across the room to continue his sweeping, effectively ending their first interaction. 

After that initial encounter, she rarely sees him. He prefers to stay locked up in the makeshift studio or crouching behind random surfaces because it supposedly helped him concentrate on writing. Katara had nearly socked him in the neck when she opened the bathroom at five in the morning to find him laying down, recording a track. He was always an early riser, arriving to work earlier than she did, and that just pissed her off even more. 

Even during “team” meetings in the hours before the tea shop opened, he was just as illusive. Answers coming out more like grunts, looking agitated and rocking back and forth irritably in what Katara was sure was the same black hoodie he had been wearing for the last two weeks straight. She could recognize the McDonald’s Sweet and Sour sauce stain from last week, when she brought him a pity lunch while he was in one of his writing “moods.” She did appreciate the small smile he gave her. As quickly as it came, it disappeared, set in a familiar scowl before he shut the door in her face.

Dick. 

“Why does he even show up to meetings if he’s going to use the same fucking excuse of finally ‘finding writing inspiration,’ and then just dissapear after twenty minutes?” Katara asks Suki, the resident jack of all trades. She was originally hired to make beats and provide background vocals, her specialty. The role quickly evolved into being an editor of Zuko’s YouTube covers, a makeup artist if Zuko had the occasional gig at a dive bar, and even a bodyguard when one of his few fans got a little too _hands on_ during photos. Suki swears on Rihanna above she didn’t even know she was capable of breaking anyone’s thumbs. 

Suki fails to suppress a giggle from escaping. “He’s an _artiste_. Don’t question the craft.” Katara snorts. “He’s just not good around people after the whole thing with his dad. He’s been alone for a while. I think he just prefers it that way.” Katara nods in begrudging understanding. 

While everything was very much _hush-hush_ about what had truly happened with Iroh’s departure from a seasoned career, Katara found out from the rumor mill (Sokka) that it had something to do with his disagreements with Zuko’s father, a high tempered prick next in line to taking over the corporation. Iroh essentially betrayed his brother by taking Zuko with him in leading a lower profile life. Katara couldn’t quite remember it, but Sokka could clearly recall the years when Zuko’s kindergarten graduation photos were easily worth millions, and how those types of magazines you always saw in the checkout line at grocery stores, but were forbidden from purchasing, were littered with pictures of him and his sister, Azula. A true sign of modern day royalty. 

The media always favored Azula more, an academically bright girl with powerhouse vocals. She was smart, pretty, and everyone ate it up. The makings of a pop sensation. Zuko, even despite the siblings’ highly reported, rigorous training, had faded into relative obscurity. Even the news covering Iroh’s exit forgot his name, only referring to him as “Ozai’s son.” Whether or not it was done intentionally, Zuko had preferred it that way. 

Being with Iroh was healing him. He was away from a life he could never wrap his head around, he was getting the chance to make music his way. It was better for him, after his father kicked him out. Being alone, being with his own thoughts for a while. There was never a safe space for him growing up. At school, people were uppity and cruel, at home it felt like a battlefield, a war he was always losing but couldn’t find the energy to surrender. 

For the first time in his life, he felt like he could breathe. 

Music making was always his escape, even if his earliest memories of it were all marked with cruel jabs at the hands of his father. He tried not to focus on the long term plans, or going back to school at Iroh’s insistence. All he needed was some time to breathe, figure his shit out before having to face reality or making sure his music succeeds and he could afford rent instead of sleeping in Iroh’s living room. He likes to think Iroh is going with the flow because he loves him and that he understands _being better_ takes time. He ignores the voice in the back of his head saying that Iroh was more so pitying him than anything else. 

Zuko thinks Katara’s the most annoying person he’s ever met. Just the slightest bit. She gets people to like her, hell even winning over June who doesn’t take any of Zuko’s shit. She’s hardworking, never a moment away from her laptop or making a phone call. Even when she’s nothing more than a tea server, she’s the poster child of kissing customer’s puckered assholes. Fucking annoying. 

The first time she _really_ got on his nerves was when she tried signing him up for TikTok. 

“You better learn how to do a body roll to the tune of Megan Thee Stallion’s “Savage” if you want to keep these bitches hooked,” Katara asserts, shoving him back in position to keep learning the dance. His limbs and face are on fire. He thinks it’s because he hates dancing with Katara’s eyes seemingly critiquing his every move, or maybe it’s because of Katara’s workout clothes hugging her body in a way that makes him nervous and words clam up in his throat. 

“Don’t call my fans ‘bitches.’ They’re like 16,” Zuko grumbles. He started gaining a following after regularly going on Instagram live and creating songs right there and then. It was his niche, something artists were rarely doing. On Sundays, after a few hundred followers log on to watch, he starts carving up beats, humming to himself, thrumming against the guitar, or drum, or piano. Recording here and there, tapping on his laptop keyboard, sticky from the time he spilled a Sprite on it, and recording a few lyrics he had in mind throughout the week. By the end of the live session, a song would be produced and uploaded to SoundCloud. Even if some of the comments flowing through the live video stream were telling him to take his shirt off and suck his toes on live, he likes it. He liked the comments with simple words of encouragement, excited for him to make more. Nothing like the years of adolescence where all he could focus on was what his family would think. 

Katara was the one who came up with the idea of editing clips together from the live session, speeding them up, and making it “tutorial” like before uploading it to TikTok. Soon enough, teenage girl hearts were ready to implode on that app, too. 

“You refusing to learn a 30 second dance has the same energy as when 25 year old white guys can’t get pussy so they go to Korea to teach English.” 

Zuko pinches his nose in frustration. “Can you get to the point? I really don’t have time for your oddly specific references right now.” 

“I’m saying you’re pathetic. And also calling you a colonizer.” 

He still thinks Katara’s annoying when her smile nearly renders him speechless after his dance cover gains him a startling number of followers on all his social media. Including a Twitter, which was now spitting out translated content to reach his growing international following. Again, Katara’s idea to hire international fans to translate and further his reach, even if it meant taking a pay cut. 

He didn’t think she could get any prettier. He’s sorely proven wrong when he peeks from his spot in the corner of the basement and sees her breathlessly giggle as she opens the lunch he packed for her. Complete with tea and Tylenol for her cold. When she stares up to make eye contact with him, he thinks his whole body could combust. 

“Katara’s so fucking annoying,” he whispers under his breath. He has the decency to look the slightest bit sheepish when Iroh sends him a chastising glare. 

The second time she annoys the shit out of him is when she’s the one who secured him a meeting with Bumi, an old friend of Iroh’s responsible for newer artists kicking Ozai’s off the charts. People wouldn’t dare work with Iroh, in fear of endangering their partnerships with Fire Nation Records. Bumi could give less than two shits. 

He’s thoroughly impressed at the songs Zuko was regularly uploading to his Soundcloud, the quality of the music no matter how shitty makeshift their studio was. In collaboration with Jasmine Dragon Entertainment, he was ready to ink a deal for a music video and professionally recorded EP with a handful of songs. If those do well, he would officially sign Zuko into the label. 

“Why are you mad at me? Is it because I thought your favorite Gaga song was “Shallows” instead of “Edge of Glory”? You know how many times I already apologized for that!” Katara exclaims, all dramatic and pretty and doing all the wrong things to Zuko. Because he should be mad at her. That’s why he has been pouting and glaring all day. In her oversized crewneck, her hands are covered in the material, flapping about that only endears Zuko. 

He should be celebrating the way June and Iroh were. This was a huge moment in his career, a once in a lifetime opportunity. Why was he so fucking ungrateful, being mad at Katara? Someone who believed in him? 

“Why did you set up the meeting with Bumi?” Zuko’s question is terse, words sharp as a knife. 

Katara’s smile slips off her face, picking up the aggressive tone in his voice. It sounded grittier than usual, and it’s not because of the Stiiizy he just bought. Seeing Katara distressed has Zuko regretting asking his question immediately. “Well, I sent the email out on a whim. Then he responded. I thought it would be a great opportunity for you.” She treads lightly, her voice trying to keep the anger out of it. _What an ungrateful whore_ she thinks. 

“Why did you just spring this shit on me? Did no one think to warn me, just throw me in a suit and in Suki’s Prius and pray I didn’t ask too many questions?” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” 

Zuko sighs. “Why didn’t you think to ask me what I fucking wanted?” He’s angry, his voice steadily growing in volume. 

Katara’s eyes are wide open in disbelief. “I’m so confused. Where the fuck is all of this coming from? How about a ‘ _thank you, Katara! For setting up an opportunity of a lifetime! I’m going to buy you a ferret for all your help in launching my goddamn career!_ ’ Where the fuck is that energy?” 

Zuko gets up, collecting his laptop from the desk barely holding itself together. “I’m sure this is great for Iroh, for June, for you. But, did you not think about what _I_ wanted?” 

“I think of you when I’m having diarrhea,” Katara deadpans. 

He doesn’t know why he blows up at her. Maybe it was the fact his blazer was two sizes too small, or that his dress shoes are pinchy because it was the first time in a year he wasn’t wearing slides, but he does it anyway. Zuko didn’t want to make it apparent he was a pussy and scared about taking this shit seriously again. He swore music was just a passive hobby, something to take the edge off of the monotony of making leaf jizz. The meeting with Bumi was making it _real_ again. 

“I need some time to cool off.” He pops in his Airpods, and Katara is about to remind him to clean the earwax off them but he slams his door on the way out. 

_Fuck_ she thought she was finally making progress with their friendship. The little moments in the wee hours of the morning, where Katara would do her patented Shakira impression and Zuko would double over laughing. Or when he would make her dinner when she stays behind long after Iroh, June, and Suki have left. He swears he was struck with inspiration, and not because he liked walking her home. 

She smacks the desk in her frustration. It wobbles, and she almost cries when it completely collapses. _Could this day get any fucking worse_? She’s about to close out her seemingly millions of Google Chrome tabs, until she gets to Zuko’s email to the team. Attached were some tracks he’s been working on. She usually ignores those emails as they were intended more for Iroh and Suki than anyone else. But she presses play anyways, as she tries to grab some paperwork from the rubble of the former Ikea desk. 

He finds her like this, when he comes back an hour later after forgetting his Stiiizy. Her entire body is wrapped up in one of Iroh’s blankets, sitting on the dirty floor and sniffling. Her eyes are bloodshot, and when she peers up at him from underneath her lashes, snot dripping down her face, he thinks it’s impossible to love her even more. She launches herself at him, a hug that knocks him down to the floor. 

“I’m sorry!” They blurt simultaneously. She nuzzles against him, gripping him as though she could erase the years of pain from a simple embrace. His music was so _raw_ and she felt like she was drowning in the betrayal, the bared emotions he talks about. Every chord, every note was delicately crafted, masterpieces in their own right. She cries when he longs for his parents, heart threatening to split in half as he begs for understanding from an ex, rolling her eyes when he compares pussy to French toast. 

They stay up the entire night, shoulder to shoulder on the floor. Zuko finds a blanket to cocoon himself like Katara, a box of apology cookies Zuko had purchased from Target passed between them. When she talks about her mother, he holds her hand _so_ tight because he’s not good with words, not when he feels like crying, too. When he mentions his dad, she grabs him in an embrace, hand coming up to his scar gently that has him wishing the night could last forever, with just the two of them. 

“I’m just not good at having people care about me,” Zuko reveals, eyes bleary from the lack of sleep. “I guess I’m just scared. I’m scared about having to actually _care_ about something again.” Katara’s in his lap, holding him so tight. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in. 

//

He can’t feel his hands. Indica always does that to him. He can’t wipe the dumb smile off his face, and even hugs June. She promptly peels him off her by the strands of his hair. He feels his scalp irritated from her sharp nails, but doesn’t miss the carefree smile she has on her face, despite being the only sober one in the room. Zuko’s sure Uncle Iroh is sleeping in a pile of his vomit, and Suki was munching noisily on Cool Ranch Doritos in the corner, too entirely occupied with watching a compilation of Nicki Minaj and Tom Holland fan edits. She cries once in a while, and Zuko is entirely too high to comfort her. 

The first music video he put out with Bumi’s help was trending on YouTube. His fans have already edited clips of it to the sound of Flo Milli’s “Beef FloMix,” and posting the videos under people’s tweets as if it was a Kpop fancam. He heard from Katara some TikTokers have already made a cheerleader-esque dance to his track. How they would energetically do it to Zuko’s R&B ballad, he doesn’t know. But does he dare question it? 

“Bless you!” June laughs out, eyeing a sneezing, wobbling Katara, who earlier in the night, insisted that Henny was going down like juice. 

“Oh my god, that sneeze just punctured my uterus. Where the fuck are the toilets?” Katara grasps at Zuko’s hands, taking them in her sweaty palms. “Please keep me in your prayers. I need all the strength possible to carry out this period shit. It’s going to look like Jordyn Woods making the Kardashians her bitch on the _Red Table Talk_. Except for Kourtney, she always gets a pass.” 

“You know I don’t watch _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_.” 

Katara narrows her eyes, clearly frustrated. “In other words, a crime scene.” Her pout seizes up his heart. 

June grabs Zuko by the shoulders when Katara is out of earshot. “How many times have I told you?”

Zuko rolls his eyes, which even feels like a chore. Everything feeling like he’s trapped in gelatin. “Ok, I get it! You don’t have to keep telling me my balls _aren’t_ a scratch and sniff sticker. I get it. Your words are wise.” June flicks his forehead. 

“No, idiot. God, you’re worse at reading the room than the oddly seductive voice trying to convince me to get Spotify Premium again. Go get the girl! Ask her out!” 

“You don’t think I’ve been trying!” God, was Katara _annoying_. She’s stolen his heart and doesn’t even know it. Everything she does has him ready to buy them matching couple socks and slash the tires of the guy at the mall kiosk selling straighteners who told her hair was frizzy and put her in a bad mood for a few hours last Tuesday. “She’s clueless!”

Focused entirely too much on getting Zuko signed to Bumi’s label. Worrying herself sick, coming in with flushed cheeks like she ran to the office, too full with ideas to hold it in any longer. Her sweaters are always too big for her, her scratchy suits ditched for comfy sweats and dirty white sneakers with socks that have chihuahuas on them. He sometimes texts her an impromptu song he crafts up with lyrics that remind her to eat or take a break from her glaring laptop screen when he notices the pulsating vein coming out on her forehead. Her obnoxious laugh when she heart reacts to the text makes him weak. 

June’s face blanches. “Gross. You better move fast, bitch baby.” Their eyes follow the girl in question crouching near Suki to join her in Dorito consumption. “Jet was salivating over that immaculate pussy.” 

“Please don’t remind me.” 

While Fire Nation Records is under investigation for drug trafficking, Jet made the move to terminate his contract with them and instead join Bumi’s label to carry out his much anticipated tour. Fans were appeased and ready to support him without having to associate with Fire Nation Records. A brilliant move on his end, especially when rumors began circulating about a certain up and coming R&B singer was in the process of coming on the tour to join him as an opening act. A negotiation initiated by the one person who Zuko swears is going to give him an aneurysm. 

“I’m coming to this negotiation meeting mainly for you. But for me. But for you. It’s fine,” Katara whispers. He doesn’t miss the makeup she’s put on for the first time in weeks, the gloss making her lips look plump and kissable. Zuko’s grumpy for the whole day after seeing how well Jet and Katara get along. 

//

“Why are you calling me?” Katara asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

Zuko nearly groans hearing her sleep laden voice. _Down boy_ he tells his penis. “Are you busy?” 

“You know it’s Fat Coochie Friday.” 

Zuko pauses, mid-chew of a granola bar he found in his pants pocket. “And, pray tell, what the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means my fat coochie wants—no, _needs_ to be left alone on Fridays.” 

His sigh has Katara laughing. “Hang out with me. I miss you.” 

“You saw me two hours ago. Free the fat coochie, let her breathe.” 

“I’ll buy you udon.” 

After a beat, Katara breathlessly screams into the phone “Give me 20 minutes!” 

She wants him to die, that’s what it is. How she enthusiastically slurps up the noodles, and laughs at him when he drops a shrimp tempura in his lap when her eyes follow him. It’s an outdoor restaurant, one of those tents that look like they’re put together haphazardly. She hugs a fan made hoodie closer to her body in an attempt to keep warm. He was shivering after giving up said hoodie, but it was worth seeing the look of relief on Katara’s face. It feels like the two could just be college kids getting cheap food, worrying about exams and not how to manage a tour on a shoestring budget. 

In the middle of Katara’s rant about how much his fake Off-White tour outfits would cost, he places his hand on top of hers. “Let’s not think about work tonight! I know how stressed you’ve been.” Katara wants to suck his penis like a boba straw right there and then. “So…” he waves his chopsticks around for emphasis. “Do you think Michelle Obama is a creamer or squirter?” 

He swears he saw a thick noodle come out of Katara’s left nostril. 

//

“The last time I went through a guy’s likes I lost 10 pounds in one day and cried 4 times. I don’t know why I keep doing it,” Katara complains, throwing the phone against her wall. As Zuko became more mainstream once the news broke confirming his position as Jet’s tour opener, June has been pushing a womanizing image on the guy. Especially after actress Mai commented on one of Zuko’s selfies on Twitter with a tongue emoji. 

“I told you to not fall in love with a singer! You always get a song written about your pussy after the breakup.”

“I revealed too much about myself too soon, didn’t I?” Katara smacks her forehead in frustration. “What an emotional slut!” She hates the jealousy she feels, coursing through her body. Toph’s nod in agreement causes Katara to slam her face into her pillow. She doesn’t think she can survive the next four weeks sleeping on a tour bus. Mainly because of her motion sickness. Partially because it meant having to hear Zuko and Sokka argue about whether or not _Megamind_ deserved an Oscar nomination. It was a mistake hiring Sokka as the tour photographer. 

//

“I’m pretty sure doing a screamo version of Soulja Boy’s ‘Pretty Boy Swag’ does _not_ count as a valid vocal warm up,” she gently reprimands. She knows he’s been nervous, the pressure he feels with the tour. He stays in the basement until easily 3 or 4 in the morning, sometimes passing out until Katara clocks in and has to shake him awake before he has to do an interview with a local news outlet to promote the tour. 

She eyes him warily when he reaches in his pocket wordlessly. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Oh, you know. Having a midnight snack.” 

“Please explain to me exactly _why_ you are cutting that adderall tablet in half?”

“Just watching my figure. You know, the hip dips,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “I’m stress-adderall taking. This hasn’t happened since I had to tell my dad that he needed to show up to at least one parent teacher conference.” 

“I can see that.” 

She knows his love language is being babied above anything else. She walks him home, after nearly swaddling him in a blanket, in the dead of night. They attempt to make homemade Girl Scout Cookies from a Bon Appetit video.

Iroh wraps the blanket around them even tighter when he wakes up and sees the both of them passed out on the futon. 

// 

“You look like off-brand Tyga.”

He gasps. “I think that hurt more than my dad abandoning me.” 

“Good. Your hair parted that way makes you look like one of those guys whose Tinder bios just say ‘I’m 6 feet, not that anyone asked’ with the seductive face emoji.” Katara hates that Jet’s stylist thinks they know better than Suki. They have been switching on and off throughout the tour and according to Katara’s copious research, the fans prefer Suki’s vision. 

Another successful performance at a venue with packed fans, and Katara’s heart swells with pride seeing the numbers rise everywhere. Social media, streaming, and song purchases. After the tour, with the momentum of having the entire industry’s eyes on him, he would be dropping _The Blue Spirit_ , an amalgamation of pop, R&B, ballads and a sound that is so uniquely Zuko. Sometimes, she’s scared that he’s becoming too big for her. 

“Are you watching ear wax removal videos?” Zuko yelps, incredulous in every sense. 

Katara shrugs casually. “What? They’re relaxing.” He’s in just a pair of sweats, struggling to squeeze into Katara’s bunk that barely fits her. He’s scrolling through his phone, trying to take his mind off of his performance. He’s upset, the few notes he fumbled and went too high on. Katara insists he’s always too hard on himself, but he didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Especially not her. He peers over to her still form, eyes trained at the ceiling and phone laying face down on her chest. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

“How Nick Jonas’s nipples would look greased up, why?” 

She guffaws when he shoves her. “By the way, you have yet _another_ TikTok video that has gone viral.” 

Zuko runs his hands over his face. “Don’t tell me it’s the one with Aang.” Her snickers confirm his fears. 

Katara’s all too proud that she discovered the young singer after seeing his YouTube covers, who enthusiastically signed onto Jasmine Dragon Entertainment in hopes of working with Zuko. Apparently, the kid had been following Zuko for the past four years, even when he was trying to figure out his sound and was posting cringey car raps on Instagram. Katara doesn't ever let him live down his attempt at rapping over the beat for Nicki Minaj's _Starships_. 

“I have a gift for you. For your big, juicy brain coming up with all these ideas.” Zuko searches in the velcro pouch attached on the outside of Katara’s bunk, where he hid the package. He bought the pouch for her, so he could write cheesy compliments every morning on a Post It and drop them off, or leave fancy snacks he gets in every venue's green room. (Her love language). 

“What more could I want? I can afford to go to therapy regularly. And I had sushi for dinner.” She closes her eyes in anticipation, and when she opens them, she thinks she’s going to cry. “Sea prune gummies?” She’s squealing, throwing herself on top of Zuko. She’s making unintelligible noises until she stops herself to make a coherent one. “How?!” 

He winds his arms around her waist. “I timed the Amazon package delivery to when we would be performing at the Serpent auditorium, and had it delivered there. I thought it wouldn’t make it, but thank Rihanna I ordered it right after you said you missed—” 

A tender kiss on the cheek has him freezing up. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi how are you!! what have you been up to? just wanted to pop in at the end and say that I love you! I hope everything is going ok. Stay safe and socially distant!! 
> 
> I've honestly been waking up at 2 pm every day hehe that's on depression luv xx ive been eating my weight in bread but I tried to cook! Made some kimchi spam fried rice and it was yummy!! Can we do a recipe exchange? or playlist exchange? or fic exchange? i miss u guys so much! (tell me if im being too needy! hehe)
> 
> also fat coochie friday was taken from a v popular tumblr post and coochie celebration from @gluten-free-pussy hehe


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